


k.i.s.s.

by powercrow, SasTMK (OutOfLuck)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Drinking, En is Bad at Dating, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Sakaar (Marvel), Smoking, Zero Effort to Follow Canon of Any Kind, so is Loki, weird creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29071809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powercrow/pseuds/powercrow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutOfLuck/pseuds/SasTMK
Summary: kiss /kis/1. a verb, a touching of lips in affection, love, desire, greeting2. something that En wishes to share with Loki3. a colloquialism: keep it simple stupid - something En must learn, if he is ever to be successful in his efforts to woo LokiFor two beings with nearly limitless power, Loki and En areterribleare dating.
Relationships: En Dwi Gast | Grandmaster/Loki
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020





	k.i.s.s.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a delight to write for [SasTMK 's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutOfLuck/pseuds/SasTMK) beautiful art! <3  
> Please go enjoy the full art [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29109801). 
> 
> A couple of things:  
> 1\. No effort has been made to stick to any sort of canon. This fic is very roughly situated somewhere between one of the times Loki leaves Asgard (maybe Thor 1-ish) to somewhat before Thor Ragnorak, but I also pulled a little bit of inspiration from the comics.  
> 2\. Likewise, I took a lot of liberties with Sakaar.  
> 3\. All errors are my own
> 
> Written for the 2020 Marvel Reverse Big Bang

banner by [SasTMK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutOfLuck/pseuds/SasTMK)

It’s unexpected. 

Loki had returned to his quarters, seeking a little respite in the constant chaos and the frankly exhausting buzz of activity that is Sakaar. 

He’d found it right away, lying on the small table tucked in the corner of his living room.

Plucking it from the table with care, Loki examines it from every angle. No note, no vase to preserve its life, and yet, it’s secrets are laid bare to him from the first touch of his fingers. A hot house beauty, the rose is large and in full bloom, each petal a perfect, almost disturbingly uniform shade of silver. They’re velvety soft against Loki’s fingertip. 

“Ah, _fuck_.” The thorns are wicked, hooked things, and one sinks deep, practically _leaping_ into his finger. The profanity leaves his lips in a whispered exhale and he extracts the thorn, hissing as it comes free. Blood wells on his fingertip, and Loki sucks his finger absentmindedly while he continues to stare at the rose. 

It’s just _so_ very unexpected. 

Loki can _see_ the memories of the rose, as well as he can _see_ the memories of most things. And what he sees now — that too, is unexpected. He lives the first uncoiling of the seed, pushing through earth, roots stretching deep for water. He feels the delicious anticipation of buds forming, leaves unfurling, and the hot touch of sun on petals and — the incongruous bits. Fingers disturbing soil and gentle over leaves, a soft voice singing a song written by a long forgotten people. 

The abrupt end, the quick moment of death that had brought the rose to Loki’s hand. 

The memories of the rose echo with the touch of the Grandmaster, and what Loki sees is not anything he had looked for.

It’s not anything he wants to examine too deeply. 

Loki sighs as he conjures a wisp of flame. 

The rose burns bright, right down to the stem. Ash smudges Loki’s hands, leaving only a memory. It would not do to leave his blood lying around for anyone to pick up and use. Loki is relatively confident in his anonymity in this distant universe, but paranoia is a habit he can’t seem to shake. 

Still, he indulges in a brief moment of regret, before he rubs the ash from his hands and goes to bathe and dress for dinner. 

“ _Brrrrp!”_

Loki doesn’t make it far before he’s intercepted by the rub of fur against his legs. Bending at the waist, he scritches the beast that has adopted him. “Hello dear old Thing, excellent job guarding the door, as per usual. Cutthroats and villains must quake at your presence.”

“ _Mrrrr!”_

His companion is a strange little creature — about the size and shape of a domestic housecat, with all the inborn confidence of that species, paired with distinctly avian features, and exceedingly soft fur in a mind bending blend of pale pink and lavender. It’s fond of Loki, for whatever reason, following him about and curling under his chin at night. Loki in turn is fond of it, even as he respects the razor sharp claws hidden in delicate paws, and the venomous stingers concealed within a multitude of soft, plumy tails. He hasn't gotten a clear answer from anyone on what sort of beast it is, or even a species name, so Thing it remains.

Loki gives Thing a good scratch behind it’s tufty ears and along the ridged spine while it lets out a happy cacophony of trills and — “ _Ugh_ , you are disgusting.”

“ _Meh_.” Thing agrees.

Wiping the pink, faintly phosphorescent drool from his hands, Loki goes to fill the bathtub, shedding clothing behind him. The sound of Thing prowling around fades into the background, shortly replaced with soft, wheezy snores, and Loki hopes briefly that Thing does not drool too copiously onto his pillow.

Loki takes his time with his nightly grooming. There are many disadvantages to living on Sakaar in self-imposed exile, but the bathing facilities are certainly not one of them. Loki indulges nearly every day. He enjoys the ritual of it, filling the tub with water as hot as it will go, adding soap and a generous drizzle of sweet scented oil that leaves his skin smooth and faintly luminous. Sheet sized towels go into the warmer, candles are lit and lights dimmed, his clothing for the evening carefully selected and laid over the large, comfortable chair in his bedroom. 

And finally, when Loki slips into the tub, he can’t hold in the long sigh of pleasure that escapes him as he savors the feeling of steaming hot water slowly surrounding him up to his neck. The heat never quite reaches deep enough inside him to touch the chill that wraps around his bones, but it — helps. For a time, anyways. 

He soaks for a long time, mind drifting, toes flexing in the gently swirling hot water, a bubble draped arm occasionally snaking out to snag a glass of chilled wine. 

He soaks until the water begins to cool, and then he thinks again of the rose, of the faint regret that had filled him to destroy it. 

And, he thinks of the man that sent it. The Grandmaster. 

***

Several months prior, Loki had come to Sakaar entirely by chance. 

He _thinks_ it’s been months, anyways. Time on Sakaar runs a little funny, an endless neon haze of laughter, cruelty, and chaotic hedonism. Loki had come to Sakaar entirely by chance, and having arrived and been welcomed, he’d stayed mostly out of convenience. 

Asgard — well, he’d left on less than favorable terms. His father _completely_ and not entirely _fairly_ out of sorts with him. He’d not taken kindly to Loki’s attempts to gather power to himself, despite it really being entirely in line with the family tradition. Thor, so _disappointed_ , tearful, begging him to stay, for them to work it out. His mother, off world at the time, but he can only imagine how it will be spun when she returns home. 

Loki had clung to the rainbow bridge, fingers clenched tight and cramping, and while his father had ranted, he’d had ample time to consider his failures. His shortcomings. Not just as a son, a brother. But as an imminent ruler, a failed conqueror. His very thoughts, his brain had screamed at him, turning over the events he had orchestrated — 

And he’d let go, had let the universe take him where it would. 

And it had taken him. 

Drifting in space, he’d bounced from planet to planet. He’d seen countless great, dead rocks, and the death of more than one star. He’d wandered through planets of breathtaking beauty, and unimaginable cruelty, encountered people he’d never imagined. On a whim, he’d hitched a ride with a group of — well, they called themselves merchants, but they were undoubtedly some variety of common space pirate. Polite enough on the surface, somewhat deferential to Loki after he’d talked them into bringing him along, but he’d seen the weapons tucked into every spare corner and the hungry, avaricious look of the crew. 

He’d had to kill a few of them, of course. A couple for trying to rob him, and another for trying to make free with his person, manhandle him in a most crude way, made complacent by Loki’s (relatively) fine dress and smaller frame. His knives had made easy work of them all, and none had been able to argue he’d been in the wrong. All had left him alone, after the last man had died, very publicly and messily during dinner. 

They’d come to Sakaar after, and the Grandmaster was always looking for new entertainment, fresh adornments to the lawless, unordered splendor he called a home. And even somewhat dispirited, jaded, Loki seemed to provide that entertainment, and so he’d been provided with quarters, invited to the evening shenanigans, asked to stay a while. 

Loki pointedly does not think on how he had been decidedly _unwelcome_ to continue on with his prior companions. 

And, he has no illusions that once he ceases to be entertaining, or useful, he’ll be ousted quickly enough. But the days had passed, slipping into months, and still he was welcome. 

And — Loki pulls his knees up in the now tepid water. Now the Grandmaster is sending him flowers. 

It’s just _so_ unexpected. 

Not the attention, necessarily. The Grandmaster had been seemingly intrigued with Loki from the moment he’d arrived. Loki had tumbled off the pirate’s ship, been frog marched by a cotillion of the Grandmaster’s armed guards — flat, matte carapaces and spiraling elaborate helmets not entirely unlike his own, lit with glowing pink over the abdomen, the arms and eye sockets. 

He’d been rushed through seemingly endless ballrooms and dining halls, antechambers and reception rooms. Senses assaulted by a rapid impression of high, painted ceilings and elaborate furniture, neon lights of every shade inlaid to every possible surface, glinting off elaborately carved furniture, lighting the floor as they’d walked, glitter and shine embedded into into every corner, every detail, and the people he’d passed had been just as fantastic — beings in every shape and size and just as fabulously adorned. His head had been practically spinning and then he’d been in front of — 

The Grandmaster. 

Even all these months later, as exhausted and hungry, as tired and befuddled as he’d been, he still remembers that first encounter.

A brief impression of bright blue paint and dark eyes, a lingering kiss brushed to his fingertips. Gleaming teeth, and a wicked laugh, and then Loki had been ushered to a room, provided with a rushed bath and a cold meal, and then he’d been descending deep into blessed sleep.

scene art by [SasTMK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutOfLuck/pseuds/SasTMK), art post linked [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29109801)

It had been their first encounter, but not the last. 

Loki trips the drain with his toe. He sits in the tub until it runs dry, and then he goes to dress for dinner. 

The food is unremarkable that night, or rather, Loki has no bandwidth to pay it any mind. He picks at his dessert — a large, carved piece of spiced cake that he thinks is meant to resemble a hippopotamus, but is rather potato-like instead. 

Loki drinks, working on his third glass of wine, and he nods absently along with the people seated on either side of him who are — talking over him, actually. Loki is not particularly popular. Too sharp tongued and morose by turns, a little too quick to draw his knives in offense, not often inclined to amusement, and unwilling to pretend at it. 

It’s not his norm. Usually, Loki prides himself on being the consummate courtier. Charming, easy going, able to match any level of courtly manners. Able to talk anyone into anything and dance circles around then with a gracious smile on his face. The darker sides of his personality — well, he’d reserved that for his family, and even then it had most often come out in playfulness. (Even if his definition of playful is not quite in line with their own.)

Now he sits, ignored by his companions, wine tasteless in his mouth while he stares at the man. Well, being, really. The Grandmaster is no mortal man. He sits at the head of the room, laughing, talking. Leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the cheek of one man, a finger trailing over the shoulders of another, gesturing so wildly with his drink it’s a miracle it does not spill. 

The Grandmaster is handsome enough, Loki is forced to conclude. Smooth, golden skin and silvery hair, always carefully groomed. He paints his face, which is something Loki has always liked in a man, and the Grandmaster does it skillfully, eyes shadowed and dark, cheekbones shining and sharp enough to cut. 

His hands are long, finely formed, eloquent. They’ve always seemed as carefully groomed as the rest of him, but now — Loki finds himself squinting, looking for any hint of dirt, any chipping of the long, blue nails. Searching for some hint that this immaculate being is the same that knelt in the dirt, coaxed a rose to life and then took it, just as casually.

Suddenly tired of himself, his brain, Loki pushes back from the table abruptly. He’s nearly out the door when he remembers — 

Retracing his steps, he neatly snags the bottle of wine from his table companions. _Excellent, nearly full_. Taking a long draught straight from the bottle, Loki leaves. 

He doesn’t notice how the Grandmaster leaves off his conversation, staring after him. How his table attendant over-pours the glass, waiting for the distracted Grandmaster to stop him, who utterly fails to do so. He doesn’t notice how the Grandmaster sits back down, still staring after Loki, heedless of the wine running into his lap and over the floor.

Loki notices none of that, and instead takes another detor, through the kitchens. Some sleight of hand, a charming smile for one of the cooks, and he comes away with an entire plate of small tasty things. 

The rest of his evening is spent pleasantly enough, with his wine and his snacks, feet kicked up on the rail of his quarter’s small balcony. The moons of Sakaar chase each other across the sky, glowing golden in the dark. He smokes a bit. It’s a nasty habit, one he’d picked up on Earth, but Loki likes it, enjoys rolling various aromatics, blowing smoke rings and other fantastical shapes. Enjoys the smell of the smoke, and the ritual of it, and the way it fills the sky and hovers around his head. Loki smokes, and picks at his food.

This most recent attempt is not the first time the Grandmaster has sought to draw Loki’s attention to himself. It’s not even the second, or the third, though the first had been the most straightforward, the most blatant. 

Shortly after Loki had arrived on Sakaar, an invitation had come. He’d been invited to dine, hadn’t realized it was a _private_ invitation, an intimate one. Until he’d arrived and seen the Grandmaster, clothing casual, hair tousled, two chairs drawn close together — it had not been hard to figure out then. Nor had the Grandmaster’s demeanor been any mystery. He’d tipped his head in close to Loki, let his hand linger overlong at Loki’s elbow, had made the most obscene noises as he’d enjoyed his food, savored his drink. 

Normally, Loki is not exactly discriminating in his partners. He likes sex, enjoys it all sorts of ways, with all sorts of beings. But he’d been heartsore and weary when he’d first arrived, and to fall straight into bed with someone, and _ugh_ Loki hates to think about it, but on Sakaar at least, the Grandmaster is more powerful than him. And Loki had been too weary at the time to think through the intricate dance of sex and politics and power, and how sleeping with the Grandmaster would affect that, affect his stay. 

He’d sensed though, hoped, really, that the Grandmaster was not one who would throw him off for merely rebuffing his affections. Might be intrigued even, rather than annoyed, and so Loki had tried to be pleasant, but cool. Had kept his body set at careful angles, not inviting, but not an outright rejection, had kept his eyes downcast. 

And indeed, it had resulted in the Grandmaster continuing to vie for Loki’s attention in some truly ridiculous ways. It’s almost sweet, actually. Loki is not used to being sought after. But, sweet or not, he cannot imagine it’s any more than a passing amusement for another, long lived being. 

_Ugh_. 

Loki attempts to put his morose thoughts out of his head, tries to keep his mind soft and blank. 

And when the moons lower, when the wine is gone and his cigarette stash is dangerously low, Loki goes into bed, slipping between cool sheets, and drifting off slowly, mind hazy from the smoke and the alcohol. Thing is a comforting presence tucked behind his knees. 

In the morning, there is another rose on his table, red this time. Loki gives it a long, suspicious look before he goes out for his morning exercise. This time, he does not touch it, doesn’t want to know what it has to say. 

Thoughts of the Grandmaster haunt him, as he goes through his usual routine. He has no real need for exercise, and his fighting is more than adequate after centuries of war in the Nine Realms, but Sakaar is an unpredictable place. 

One day, you’re favored — a pampered courtier drifting to exquisite banquets, laughing under neon lights, and the next you’re fighting in the games, sand under your feet and the scent of blood in the air. Loki has seen it before. 

He’s confident of his abilities to navigate out of most tricky situations, but — well, things had not gone so well for him at home, and he feels more vulnerable than he might otherwise. 

So, he takes these quiet moments, the times when most others are still in bed. He takes these moments to ensure that his body, his knives, his magic are as finely honed as his mind, his tongue. Focus though, eludes him this morning, and he curses as his fingers fumble a simple toss and his knife hits the ground for the umpteenth time. 

He’d left the second rose untouched in his chambers, but it still lingers in his thoughts. It’s a quieter thing than he’s come to expect from the Grandmaster, and he does not trust that. Loki has done his best to hold the man at a distance, despite his absurd attempts to gain Loki’s attention. Despite the fact that normally, such things may well thrill him.

After Loki had refused his bed the first time, the Grandmaster had staged an entire series of games in honor of Loki’s arrival. It had been a long, glorious, bloody affair, and normally Loki would have drinken it in, enjoyed all the wonderful, wild chaos swirling around _for him_ , but it had dragged on too long, and he’d felt distinctly uncomfortable seated at the Grandmaster’s side, feeling his excitement, his quick glances at Loki to gauge his enjoyment, exchanging stilted niceties shouted over the roar of the crowd.

The hot, jealous stares of others, the whispers when they’d left separately, dined separately. 

It hadn’t stopped there. 

There’d been clothing sent to Loki’s chambers — elaborate garments in the latest Sakaaran styles, heavy with embroidery and glowing softly. Despite Loki’s normal state of jaded, he’d flushed when he’d tried them on. They’d been tailored perfectly to him, hugging every inch of his body, and that level of attention to detail, without even having laid a finger on him — 

It had been _slightly_ overwhelming. 

There had been personal invitations to attend more games, and balls — fussy, uptight affairs, and it’d been strange to see the same courtiers that howled for blood now execute tidy bows over each other’s hands, move around each other in tight, careful circles. 

Loki had accepted some invitations, and gone wearing his own clothes. The ones the Grandmaster had sent had gone unworn - too fussy, too bright. There had been more invitations, late night ones. To the smaller dinners, including the ones that devolved, more often than not into more intimate activities. Orgies, in fact. 

There is really nothing else they could be reasonably called, and Loki snorts and shakes his head, as he drops his knife again. 

He’d done so well, up to that point. His time on Sakaar, to that point, had been a dizzying swirl of activity he’d moved through, half removed. He’d participated as much as he thought he’d needed to, to get by. Holding the Grandmaster at arm’s length, not willing to let him get closer. It had all seemed superficial, too bright, too loud, _too much_. Expecting all interest in him to be lost at any moment.

Until one night — 

That night had been disturbingly real; close and immediate. It had started as an evening of light entertainment — more wine than usual, the music slower, with an unsubtle, throbbing beat. The lights had dimmed gradually, the bright pinks and reds fading, going muted, and Loki had seen the very moment it had started, a woman with bright, tentacled hair wrapping her arms around around another’s neck, pressing open mouthed kisses to her collarbone, under her jaw, while her hair had twined to bring them closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen robes slowly being drawn open, soft sighs and giggles rising over the music. 

Everywhere Loki had gazed, he’d seen pleasure and — joy. Three men had moved together, faces soft with pleasure as their skin gleamed with sweat. Another cluster of people had danced together, clothing falling to the ground, bodies gliding together accompanied with slow, lazy kisses. It had been surprisingly lovely. Erotic, and unpracticed in a way that most of Sakaar is not, for all that Loki knew it was as orchestrated as any of the other entertainments. 

Among all of it though, Loki had heard — he’s not sure what, exactly. An exhale, a gasp, the sensation of eyes upon him. He’d looked up, and his gaze had locked immediately with the Grandmaster.

The Grandmaster had been the only other in the room not engaged, and his attention entire had been focused completely on Loki, eyes intense and dark. Loki knew he had looked good that night. Dark trousers, closely fit, and a loose shirt, open at the throat. He’d braided his hair — it had grown even longer, and the braid had trailed over his shoulder, where he’d tied it off, strands coming loose to frame his face.

He’d lined his eyes, and his skin had felt soft, looked luminous after his nightly bath. 

The Grandmaster had sat up, shifting forward, gaze unbroken, and Loki had _known_ , suddenly, that he was about to get up, to come over and close the gap between them. So many of their encounters had been...adjacent.

Seated beside each other, murmuring polite nothings while heat had lingered between them.

Glances across a banquet hall.

Written invitations. 

But now, they were facing each other directly, and Loki, unable to bear it any further, had scrambled to his feet, giving himself the advantage of height. 

It hadn’t helped. 

The Grandmaster had looked him over, gaze traveling slowly down over the open neck of Loki’s shirt, seeming to pause over each button. An unhurried perusal of his trousers _they felt uncomfortably snug now_ down to the tips of his well shined boots, and then back up again, lingering over Loki’s throat as he had swallowed, audibly. 

His eyes had met Loki’s again, and they were.

Warm. Hot. Brown and shining, and his lips had quirked in a smile and then he’d been opening his mouth and Loki hadn’t been able to take his eyes off his lips, drawn in like a hapless fly, and he’d known if he heard the man speak, say something honest and real, invite him — 

Loki will go.

So he fled.

Tripping over the couch behind him and when he glanced back, once, the Grandmaster was still sitting there, fingers steepled and his face — 

Loki couldn’t read it.

There’d been a lull, after that. Loki had still felt the eyes of the Grandmaster following him, more often than not. He’d caught himself staring as well, had forced himself more and more to glance past the man, to keep his eyes from lingering over the Grandmaster’s shoulders, the angle of his cheekbones and the way his lips move. 

But, the invitations had stopped, for a time at least. The court had continued at its usual whirl, and then, yesterday, the first flower had arrived. 

And now there have been two. 

Loki plucks his knives out of the dirt, where they both had fallen. A whisper of magic, and they gleam, bright and shining, before he tucks them away. He’s practiced enough for the day. Thing emerges from the bushes, attracted by the thrum of magic, or maybe just the smell of Loki’s sweat. Regardless, the creature always seems to be able to feel when Loki does _something_ , seems to like it. They spend the rest of a very pleasant afternoon together, Loki conjuring up balls of witchlight for the little beast to chase, scritching all along it’s back, taking care to avoid the tail spines.

And back in his quarters, that night, Loki had tossed and turned, restless. Thing had gone off, irritated at his erratic movements, and Loki does not blame it. He himself is irritated at the now well worn path his thoughts run down. 

_Loki hadn’t been able to read the Grandmaster’s face that night._

_After though —_

_Loki had been able to read the desire running through his own body, the feel of his cock pushed hard, almost painfully against his pants, and he’d barely made it into a side room, ducking inside and leaning against the closed door. A quick, careless glance around to make sure he’d be unwitnessed. He’d undone his pants, pushed them down over his hips. Had taken himself in hand. Spat a couple times, after he’d hissed at the feeling of dry friction._

_And then he’d tried to think of nothing at all, as he’d stroked himself, palm cool against his heated flesh. He’d felt the sweat pool at the small of his back, and the pleasure had built, his hand moving quicker and quicker as he panted, mouth open._

_Right before he’d come, he’d squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the feeling of the softly shifting electric blue light, not wanting to see the carved dining table he’s directly in front of._

_His mind had been perfectly, utterly blank, and then, unbidden, he’d seen his own hand, sinking into silver hair, gripping tight. Brown eyes, gone soft with pleasure. A sharp edged smile._

_Loki’s release had been hot over his hand, and he’d slid down the door, eyes still shut. He’d waited until the sweat had cooled on his skin and the semen on his hand had grown tacky, and rather than a furtive, awkward return to his quarters, he did what he should have done from the beginning, and teleported back into his room._

_Loki had regretted giving this — thing, he has, with the Grandmaster more power. Giving it his thoughts, and his essence, and his efforts, his pleasure._

Loki sighs, drawn back to the present. HIs cock is hard, and the time for regret is long gone.

He doesn’t hesitate to call up images of the Grandmaster now, images that shold not obe erotic, or sexual, but somehow _are_ , The Grandmaster laughing in excitement, the way his eyes can turn warm, or cool and calculating, how they narrow with cruel glee. The loose, indolent grip of his hand on a glass, how his fingers tighten on his chair as he leans forward in interest, eyes lighting up. 

This time, when Loki touches himself, he does a proper job of it, plenty of lubricant, and a soft cloth to clean himself after. He doesn’t try to be quiet or subtle about it, letting his whole body shake with pleasure, letting his increasingly loud moans escape. It feels good. 

He does wonder, after.

He wonders if there will be more flowers, right before he slips into sleep. 

***

There are more flowers. 

There are _so_ many more. 

At Loki’s table when he wakes up each morning, and sometimes on his pillow. On his plate at dinner, and an entire jar of petals, dried, slipped into his bathing things. Roses, of course, in every shade imaginable, and other flowers — lilies, and orchids, and ones that Loki has no words for — tiny delicate blooms that fade after a single night, and enormous, dark tinted blossoms that seem to reflect the stars back at him. 

The flowers keep arriving, and still the Grandmaster says nothing, does nothing else.

But Loki can _feel_ him, can feel the care and attention and _yearning_ with each bloom he touches. It draws him in. Makes him want — more.

Makes him angry. 

Loki touches the small flower. It’s long stemmed, with small, oval leaves. Such a dark emerald, it’s nearly black, and the bloom on top — brilliant shades of green — soft spring green and jade and moss; dusted all over with sparkling, shimmering golden pollen.

Loki brings it up to his nose. It smells incredible. Lightly sweet, an effusive odor he can’t quite place. Something haunting, like he’s smelt it a hundred times before, and like he’s never smelt anything like it. He inhales again. His nose wrinkles. 

“ _Ah...ahh...achoooo!”_

The sneeze bursts violently out of him. And then again. And again. 

Loki drops the flower in favor of gripping the table, body shaking with the force of his repeated sneezing. He sneezes at least twelve times or so, and by the end, his eyes are watering, his nose is running, and when he glances in the mirror — 

Ah, yes, pollen is clinging to his cheeks, his face is red, and his hair is a disaster. 

Lok is suddenly furious. 

He presses a fingertip against the rose again, and this time he looks further. He — he could have fucking done this from the beginning, instead of playing this game, playing this strange, maddening game with the Grandmaster. 

Rather than follow the flower back, he follows the memory of the man, and when he storms out of his corridor, offending allergen in the shape of a flower still in hand, Loki knows exactly where he’s going. 

Through the long hallways, past clusters of courtiers. Through carved hallways, passing under constantly shifting light, pushing past the guards in their carapaced uniforms

Outside, under the bright blue sky, the prime sun high in the air, the second already set for the day. Past the manicured lawns and now he’s into the gardens proper, and his feet are moving without conscious input, pulled by his magic and his rage. 

Loki turns a corner, then another, pushes through a hedge, lush and green, and then another, and then — 

He stops dead in his tracks. He’s a warrior, a sorcerer, a failed ruler, he doesn’t know anything about plants, but he has a vague impression of rows of dirt and a riot of colors, the smell of _ugh_ , the composted remains of probably some very unpleasant things, greenhouses rising in the background. 

It all fades away, and Loki can only focus on the man in front of him. The Grandmaster is kneeling, digging in the dirt, probably pulling weeds or doing some other such thing. Preparing his latest dig at Loki. 

He looks — 

Good.

Casual and rumpled in a way that Loki has never seen. Hair looking soft, touchable, unstyled. Skin gone — Loki squints.

Freckled! 

_Absurd_

Dirt smears his face, and his arms, and when he turns his face up to Loki, he smiles. 

Lips cracking apart in a shy looking smile, revealing white teeth. Also unexpected, unlike his usual grin. It’s upsetting. 

Loki lets out a strangled noise of rage, and he stomps over, wincing at the way the mud pulls at his boots. 

“You! You!” He finds he can barely get the words out, he’s so angry. 

He flings the flower at the Grandmaster. Another shower of pollen explodes from the flower. He’s not worried now, about losing favor or how touchable the Grandmaster’s hair is. He’s too busy sneezing, again, and again. 

“I! Am allergic! To this — this — thing!”

The Grandmaster’s eyes widen slightly, and Loki carries on, his spiel interrupted only by explosive sneezing. 

“What is _wrong_ with you, why do you keep sending these — these _flowers_ ”

The word ‘flowers’ comes out like a snarled epitaph, a profanity.

“ — and your invitations, and your parties, and your _looking_ —”

“My looking?”

The Grandmaster sounds a little uncertain, yes. A little amused. He’s taken the flower that Loki had summarily rejected, and is holding it gently, cradled in his dirt stained hands.

“Yes, your fucking _looking_ ,” Loki snaps, “You’re looking all the time, and you keep sending these flowers! Don’t you know, _Grandmaster_ , don’t you know I can _feel_ you through them, I know you — ”

“Loki — ”

The Grandmaster has pushed to his feet now, leaving the flower in the dirt. He brushes the pollen, the dirt from his hands, onto his pants, well-worn, sturdy looking trousers.

He looks at Loki, consideringly, and Loki can feel himself turn even redder. He’s wild-haired, sniffly from all the sneezing, and he’s — just not at his best right now. 

“Loki, I cannot help but look at you.”

“Hmph.” Loki grunts “I am sure it is quite entertaining for you.” 

The Grandmaster laughs softly. “Oh, it can be _quite_ entertaining, especially today.” And he gestures at Loki, as though to encompass his — everything. “Entertainment aside, is it so hard to believe that you are intriguing? Crash landing on my planet, a princeling gone astray from his kingdom. Drawing all eyes, and yet you rebuff all overtures, all advances. All of _my_ advances.” 

He steps closer, and drops his voice lower, pleading, and Loki swallows hard, feels his fists clench. “Loki, what do you want of me? You enchant me, beguile me, and yet you accept nothing of me but my plants, my flowers.”

Loki finds he is speechless. He does not feel beguiling, or enchanting, and can hardly imagine he has acted in this way since he’s been on Sakaar. He shakes his head, feels his nails dig into his palms, “Grandmaster — “

“Loki.” The Grandmaster moves in, quick as a snake, but instead of striking, he touches Loki’s hand gently, with filthy fingertips. After a pause, a pause where Loki should snatch his hand away, a pause where Loki does _not_ snatch his hand away, he takes Loki’s hand gently in his own, as though it is something precious. Loki looks down at their hands as though has never seen them before — his long, pale fingers, captured in the Grandmaster’s surprisingly calloused grip. 

He looks at their hands, and he feels something click into place inside him. A bit of his old self, that he’d felt had been lost. A bit of confidence. An easing of fear. His own desire, that he’d been suppressing. He draws himself up. 

“Grandmaster. Ask me properly, ask me with intent. Do not subject me to your overblown entertainments, your insinuations, or sneak your hedge clipping into my bedroom.” 

“Hedge clippings?!” But the brown eyes are sparking again, and he squeezes Loki’s fingers.

“En, not Grandmaster — please, I have longed to hear you call me thus.”

Loki narrows his eyes. His heart is pounding, and he can feel his palm growing damp with sweat. This, to be entrusted with the name of the Grandmaster. That is something the analytical part of his mind will turn over later, when his heart has had a chance to calm down. 

“En, then. En, I am not one of your fawning courtiers, to fall easily into your bed and be abandoned later. I want to be — ”

And now Loki, even as he winces a little at his choice of words, lays a small bit of himself bare, answers the sharing of a name with the sharing of hope.

“I want to be wooed, to be seen. I want to matter to you. To know you.”

He’s struck with inspiration, suddenly. 

“We should date.” 

“Date?”

“Yes.” Loki says firmly, with more confidence than he feels. “It’s an — Earth thing. Like courting, but more casual. Just the two of us. No balls or — uh, orgies, or — ” 

“I know what _dating_ is, Loki, my dearest.” Loki ignores the endearment. This one will take a mile, once he’s been given an inch. 

“Good, then you will have no problems planning our first date.” 

Loki feels like this is the moment he needs to leave, where he has the power, the upper hand, and so he tries to pull back his hand, to turn firmly on this heel and leave. Instead his heel skids in the mud, and he goes down, pulling the Grandmaster — _En_ down on top of him.

Loki flails and resists the urge to pull his knives, En laughs his head off, and there is a brief, breathless moment where they stare into each other’s eyes, where Loki drinks in the feeling of a long, lean form against his own, the rise and and fall of En’s chest and it’d be easy, so easy, to tilt his head up, to offer his mouth — 

Instead, after a scramble, Loki gets free of En’s alarmingly long, alarmingly strong limbs, and instead of a dignified retreat, Loki scuttles away into the hedges, trying to conceal his completely inappropriate semi-erection. He’s pretty sure he can hear En, still laughing as he leaves. 

***

There’s a note on the table in the morning. There’s a flower too, with curling stamens in a riot of color against practically demure white petals. 

_Darling Loki_

_Please join me this evening. If you can find me._

_En_

Darling!! Loki sputters and stomps around, robe flapping open. He is no one’s darling, he is a prince of Asgard. To make him find their date, using his powers, _testing him_ , he should have known that particular slip would not go unnoticed. Outrageous! 

Loki can imagine En, laughing as he wrote the note. He probably _wanted_ to irritate Loki.

Still, as the afternoon fades, Loki finds himself, bloom in hand, once again tracking his way through the palace, the mazes and the gardens. He ducks off the main pathway, follows a little trail up and around to — 

A small bluff, overlooking some of the plains of Sakaar. The planet is multifaceted, different in every direction you turn. There’s the way Loki came in, with the pirates, through the stinking trash heaps and piles of rubble, and the great stretches of sand beyond. The city, around and below the palace proper, and the enormous sunken arenas where various beings fight and die, scented with sand and iron, bloodlust and sweat. Sakaar is a loud, chaotic place, but the plains — 

The plains are stark in the fading light. Rolling hills and small, spindly trees, standing dark and slender against the fading light, branches reaching skyward. Small birds, fluttering down into the clusters of grasses for the night. Loki stares for a minute, before turning his attention to his date, waiting casually for Loki to finish gaping. 

En looks casual, and comfortable once again — hair unstyled, clothes in faded colors and soft looking fabric. It’s quite unlike the bright colors and stiff, textured fabrics he usually seems to favor, and he stands to greet Loki, coming to take his hand.

THey’d seen each other, just at breakfast, across the great hall, and yet, to see him now, Loki feels his heart beat a bit faster. En’s hand is warm and calloused in his, and his eyes shine with warmth and when he leans in, and pauses, Loki realizes — _oh_

And he turns his cheek towards En, accepts the soft kiss of greeting pressed there. En’s breath is warm against this cheek, and Loki can’t stop the sharp intake of his breath, the quickening of his pulse. 

“Loki, sweetheart, so good of you to join me.”

“How could I resist, such a personalized invitation.”

“Only you have the ability to find me thus, it’s as personal as I could make it.” 

And before Loki quite knows what is happening, he is being tugged over, and oh, it’s a picnic. Blankets spread on the ground, and then he and En are sitting, cross-legged like children, and En is producing enough food for an army out of some baskets. Plenty of wine, and Loki is flattered to see it’s one of his favorites, one of the varieties he pilfers most often from the kitchen or the dining hall. Cheese — hard varieties, and soft smelly ones, and bread, and small pickled things, and it’s good picnic food, of course, but it also seems that Loki’s fondness for anything pickled, for plates of of small appetizers and bits of things over a full, proper meal has also been noted, and he can feel his cheeks flush slowly, to know his habits have been so observed. 

Loki realizes he’s overdressed, clothing too elaborate and he shifts, trading snug tailored trousers for softer, more comfortable garments. He pointedly ignores how En’s eyebrows raise as his form shimmers and changes. Another thought, and his hair too changes, hanging in a loose braid instead of pulled tightly back. 

The last time he sat thus, was probably one of the last battles he fought, when the Nine Realms were still at war, and he went out with Thor, and the Warriors Three, and Lady Sif. Those were simpler times, days spent wielding enchantment and blades in equal measure, nights spent around a campfire tired and bonesore. But they’d been content in company, content to eat simple food and sing, and laugh, and then sleep under the stars before doing it again. Content to accept glory, when they’d returned home. 

To his surprise, Loki finds himself telling En of it, as they eat together, and sip the wine, and En is soon laughing uproariously, because while war to secure Asgard's Place of power had been serious business, it had also been — fun. There had been plenty of time for pranks too. Thor had been more easily fooled by his enchantments then, and Loki had delighted in planting illusions all around him, as often as he could get away with it — strange creatures in his bedroll, dancing lights to lure him into water, concealing puddles of mud. And Thor had responded, mostly with tousling Loki’s hair and catching him an affectionate armlock, and _yes_ it had been simple times, though even those had spoiled, eventually, as Loki had grown further and further apart from his brother, his family. 

En responds in turn, telling his own stories of the past — and Loki had laughed in turn, imagining this urbane, cultured man focusing his entire considerable attention on such mundane matters as the outcome of a baseball game, only to have it go terribly wrong and sending En fleeing.

And slowly, they fall into silence, as the light fades, and Loki’s whole attention is captured by the sunset — brilliant lights shifting across the sky, shades of red and pink and orange, as the suns of Sakaar drop below the horizon. Loki shifts closer to En, realizes this is why this spot was chosen — the entire, unobstructed view of the whole sight. 

They’d shifted closer, and closer, and now, Loki can feel En’s fingers brush his, once. And then again, gently, an inquiry, and Loki answers, sliding his hand into En’s.

En had held his hand, briefly before, but this is different. 

This is proper hand holding, fingers twining together, a thumb rubbing gently over his palm, sliding over his fingertips, a gentle, teasing caress that shouldn’t be so appealing, but _is_.

Loki begins to think — begins to think about shifting even closer, perhaps letting his palm slide to En’s thigh, which looks lean and muscled beneath the thin fabric of his pants. He squints his eyes, as the light shifts again, distracted by movement on the plains below. The sky has faded to soft, dark pinks, and there are a few scattered beats moving across the plains, and he points them out to En. 

“Ah, yes, they migrate across through here sometimes — oh.” En’s voice cuts off, and he sniggers, and Loki wonders what he’s laughing at — _oh._

“Migrating does not appear to be all they are doing.” Loki observes dryly.

“Indeed.” En returns, and they both dissolve into giggles. 

The beasts, quadrapedal and vaguely cow-like, with shaggy hair and long, twining horns, are circling each other, stomping and snorting, squealing, and eventually settling down to their business, which appears to be fucking with abandon. They perch precariously atop one another, emitting long, tortured cries that raise the hair at the back of Loki’s neck, even as they’re silhouetted perfectly against the red of the sunset. 

It’s a mood, but certainly not the one En was going for, or really, Loki, as he lets his hand squeeze En’s thigh once, and then drops it. Any kind of romantic intent for the evening has dissipated completely, but he and En continue to drink and talk companionably, laughing at the cows below them, who _are_ having quite a romantic evening. 

And later that night, when Loki teleports himself home — he _chooses_ to walk most places, but it seems the right way to leave this time. He has no desire to be walked to his quarters, to feel the weight of attraction between them, the _should they, will they, when they —_

So, as the wine had run out, and the cows had stopped their spectacle, and even Loki’s tiny balls of witch light had not been sufficient to light their faces, Loki had leaned in and pressed his own kiss to En’s cheek.

And then he’d winked out.

***

Days pass, before Loki realizes that, the ball is in his court now, as it were. He thinks carefully about what sorts of things he’d like to do with En, other than _those sorts of things_ , and ends up settling on something.

Something that he thinks is probably a little foolish, but he thinks that En will like it anyways. Despite the grandiose tastes he’s demonstrated publicly, En’s private side is somewhat different — a man who enjoys digging in the dirt, who laughs about cows fornicating during a romantic picnic, and notes down Loki’s favorite wine. 

And Loki knows he’s calculated correctly, when En meets him in the small room he’d set up in, with two blank canvases and a myriad of painting supplies. There’s a court painter, _of course there is_ , in this strange, pseudo archaic court that En has created, and he’d been more than happy to loan supplies to Loki, after a little persuasion. 

There’s more wine, and Loki brought chocolate too — he’s noted En’s sweet tooth, and he has a case of the stuff he’d secreted away from the space pirates when he’d realized they’d had a stash on board, slowly going bad as they’d bumbled from planet to planet. 

He hadn’t regretted the theft to begin with, but he’s grateful for it now, when he sees how En’s eyes light up, how he savors each square of chocolate. His own eyes linger, when En’s tongue darts out to lick at the melted chocolate on his fingertips. En pauses, caught, and then grins, slow and suggestive. Loki has to look away, shoving a paintbrush into En’s hand and pulling him over to the canvases. 

They paint. 

Loki is terrible. For all his magical talent and imagination, his ability to conjure something out of nothing, none of it translates onto the page, and his efforts to render a Sakaaran cow are clumsy and laughable. 

En is surprisingly good, but Loki is not amused by his choice of topic — Loki himself. Loki has been the subject of art before — great, gold gleaming statues, and grand portraits celebrating the glory of Asgard. 

This one is somewhat different, unexpected. An amorphous crowd, Loki among them and yet removed, apart. Face a little sad, remote. 

It makes Loki feel — unmoored, to be so clearly perceived. For his out of placeness to be so apparent and to be rendered so clearly. En. He sees too much, and Loki isn't sure he likes being seen so clearly. 

“Why. Why — ”

He stops, not sure why his voice is shaking. Not sure if it’s rage or pain that fills him.

“Why did you paint this?” En takes his time answering, with dipping his paintbrush into a jar of water. “You want to be seen.”

When En glances at Loki, his eyes are soft, entirely too sympathetic. “I do see you, I see your — your beauty. But I also see your sorrow, your faded glory, the way you pull it around you like armor and hold it close.” 

Loki’s anger falls away, and to his mortification, he feels his lips tremble. His eyes sting. 

And then En matches his words, pulls Loki close to him. Loki lets himself be held, pushes his face into the crook of En’s neck and savors the feeling of a soothing hand on his back, soft words in his ears. Soft, foolish words, calling him things like moonbeam, and sweetheart. 

Loki doesn’t cry properly, but he does dampen En’s neck, and it feels — good. Good to think of what he’s lost, what he’d gambled away, even as it’s painful. Good to feel strong arms around him, gentle and undemanding, offering quiet comfort. 

That night ends quietly on a somber note, and Loki and En continue to date. 

The results continue to be — mixed. 

For two, incredibly powerful beings, they seem unable to have a nice evening together, let alone one that leads naturally to _more_. 

There is tension between them, surely enough. A half a dozen times that Loki thinks he might turn his head, and their lips will meet. Or that when En leans in, to make a sly comment or offer an observation, that he will lean a little further. That the tentative brushing of their hands will turn to more.

But En, having expressed his interest early on, seems content to abide in a string of steadily awful dates. When he attempts to teach Loki more about gardening, Loki learns something new about himself. 

Not only is he allergic to the flower En had sent him — 

_“I made that for you, you know.”_

_“Really? But, doesn’t it take, I don’t know, time for flowers to fuck, or breed, or whatever it is they do to make more?”_

_En had laughed, low and throaty._

_“Yes, breeding takes time, but I began work on it after you first arrived, after I first saw you.”_

_Loki had been speechless, and En had touched his hair, gently._

_“Your green eyes, touched with gold. The way power hangs around you. How you can enchant without effort, but hold yourself apart. All of it — I wanted to know you, to touch you and see you, and I tried to capture it.”_

_En had slid his hand down, had touched Loki’s neck in a barely there caress, and Loki had held back a shiver._

_“That it ended up being such a potent weapon is a happy coincidence, though perhaps logical.“_

_“A weapon?”_

_“Mm. You are merely allergic, but others less robust — well, I keep it in a secluded greenhouse now, rather than injure anyone accidentally._ ”

Loki had laughed (somewhat inappropriately) at that, and En had smiled, wistfully, as he’d pulled his hand back, wrapped it back around a shovel. 

So, Loki is allergic to the flower En had created for him, and he’s also allergic to a wide variety of other plants too. He sneezes his way through most of the garden beds, and even more of the enclosed greenhouses. En offers to take him inside, to take him to do something else, anything else, but Loki persists, stubbornly, while the handkerchief En had thoughtfully provided to him gradually is rendered down to a rag. 

Finally, they find some unobjectional flowers, some rather nondescript looking pink roses. 

And then, Loki proves to be even more of a disaster. Despite being skilled with his knives, he decapitates a half a dozen roses, before learning he is meant to be pulling the weeds. Then, he pulls them out in great clumps of dirt. Watering produces mud, he slices himself on thorns, and in the end, the garden bed looks significantly worse than when they started. 

Still, En attempts to salvage something of the situation, bundling the roses Loki had “pruned” together into a bouquet for him. And, despite their mud smeared appearances, it was somewhat romantic. Their dirt covered hands entwining, En looking down at Loki, Loki looking up, losing himself in soft, velvet brown eyes, feeling himself lean upwards, their fingers tightening, breath growing quicker — 

And then Thing had propelled itself from one of the bushes, squawking wildly, apparently interpreting the events of the day and En drawing Loki close as an attack of sorts. 

En had been stung many times, and it turns out the Grandmaster is somewhat allergic to Thing’s venom, and they had both ended the day with swollen faces and torn clothing. 

Attempts at exploring Sakaar’s natural landscapes ended similarly — attacks by various animals and bugs, more allergies on Loki’s part, and one memorable evening where some raiders did not recognize their own ruler, and it took some clever talking, and eventually Loki’s knives for them to return home. 

There was the outing to a (smaller scale) fight where the arena was set on fire by the gladiators and a three headed arthropod escaped, and a poisoning attempt on En’s life. Loki had attempted to teach En to use knives at first, and they’d both ended up bleeding, and then he’d tried to teach him to conjure a simple ball of witchlight and En’s eyebrows had ended up scorched. 

Any attempts at romantic interludes are interrupted similarly — more creatures, unruly subjects, fire, flood, bodily injury. They’ve done no more than brush lips, hold hands briefly. Any attempts at more are always swiftly interrupted, but at this point Loki is fucking _invested_. 

It’s begun to feel like a deliberate affront. Because, Loki has learned to _like_ En. Hel, more than _like_ , he’s — fond of him.

Can’t help it, really. The persistence, first of all, is admirable. That he has pursued Loki, through so many different avenues — formally, and then informally, with his flowers and his longing looks. And then, engaging wholeheartedly in Loki’s madcap plan that they date, always amused or unbothered by the multitude of interruptions they’ve experienced, but always game to try again, always ready to try some other outing that may not be an enormous disaster. 

And of course, it doesn’t help how attractive he is. How gently he treats Loki, as though he is something precious. 

Loki wants the full deal. He’s always wanted what he couldn’t have, foolish or not. Power of all kinds, to rule, to be accepted and adored. And while power has soured for him, at least for now — adoration is not out of the question, and he has become convinced of En’s sincerity. 

But, he wants it all. He wants to be wooed fully, he wants a date to go well, the lingering kiss after, and then — the rest of it. He could go to En’s quarters, or En could have come to him, like he’d come to him in the past, but they’ve moved beyond that, they’re embroiled in another game, one that Loki has set the rules for, and one he wants to see through.

And En is playing by his rules, right along with him. 

He breaks first. He’s always broken first. Unable to wait, unable to be patient. It’s a flaw, one that he hopes will change with time but — 

Gods learn slowly, change even slower, and Loki is what he is, has always tried to take what he wants, foolish or not.

They’re on yet another of their interminable dates. En had wanted to bake, had some ridiculous concoction he wanted to try that seems far too complicated for two beings who hadn’t even managed to share a meal cooked by someone else without a catastrophe. 

There is pastry to make — a cake batter that has to be divided into different bowls, and dyed different shades, and then baked in different shaped pans, and a light, fluffy whipped topping, and then a truly excessive variety of fruit to be de-stemmed and de-seeded, and cut up.

Loki takes care of the fruit, his knives flashing easily. En, tasked with the mixing of the cake, struggles — the batter is lumpy looking at first, and then goes thin and runny when he mixes it with extra vigor. The dye colors come out strangely monotone and there are egg shells everywhere.

And the whipping cream — well, as soon as En lowers the mixer in, it is clear they selected too shallow of a bowl. It splatters everywhere, covering Loki, covering En. Loki blinks. 

The first of the cakes catch on fire in the oven, smoke beginning to curl out of the oven, alarm going off. En flinches, startled, and looks around, as though he is not somehow responsible for a nearly raw cake combusting. 

Loki blinks again. Suddenly, he is enraged. Enraged, but it’s tinged with something else. Something — warm, and fond as he stares across the kitchen at En. 

At En, who is covered in batter, flour smeared on the belly of his shirt and across his face. He’d put his elbow into red dyed batter at some point. 

And Loki loves the ridiculous asshole, and he’s enraged by him. 

“You!” He gasps out, and En looks up at him, startled from where he’d been attempting to hide that he’d capsized yet another bowl of batter rather than pouring it into the tin like it belongs. 

“En, you are the fucking _worst_. It’s a good fucking thing we aren’t arranging a politial union here! Asgard would have gone to war, a half a dozen times for the insult, the sheer — ” He finds he’s not yelling anymore, but nearly crying with laughter. 

“Disrespect!” He chokes out. “The flowers, and the..all the fires!! And the mud, and the — ” He trails off, and reaches out to En, who comes to him, easily. Allows Loki to twine their fingers together and looks down at him, warm brown eyes soft and hopeful. 

“En, you are a terrible date.” 

En squeezes his fingers. He’s got flour smeared on one cheek. Loki loves him.

“Loki, cupcake, light of my existence, you are equally terrible. Your animal _companion_ poisoned me, you _stabbed_ me — ”

“You got in the way!”

“ _Stabbed_ me, you set my painting on fire, _and_ butchered half of my roses — ” En carries on, 

Loki can’t listen to him talk any longer. He doesn’t care if it’s the right moment, or what the political implications are, or even how much his clothes will be destroyed by the proximity to the loose flour and spilled batter covering En.

Loki pulls En closer anyways, savoring the feeling of his body pressed right up against him, the feeling of his own heart, beating hard in his chest, the faint color beginning to infuse En’s face. Loki brushes a kiss to En’s knuckles, flavored with sugar and dyed blue. He slides an arm around En’s waist, savoring the intake of his breath, the way En pushes closer. 

The way En shivers, slightly, when Loki reaches up to brush the flour from his cheek. The sigh, as Loki finally, finally, does what he’s been waiting for, and sinks his fingers into soft, silver hair. 

Their eyes meet for a single, breathless minute, and then Loki’s tugging En’s head down, tipping his own face up, and 

_oh_

En might be a terrible date, but he’s a wonderful kisser. His lips are soft and warm, and he sighs into Loki’s mouth like it’s all he’s been wanting, all he’s ever wanted, and it’s a heady feeling. His lips move over Loki’s, slow and reverent, exploring every inch of his mouth, tongue twining delicately with his own. Loki answers with his own sighs, his own moans, as he lets his hands slide through En’s hair, wrap around the back of his neck and tries to pull him closer, closer.

The world is nearly limitless for them, but in this moment, this all Loki could possibly want, all he could dream of — the mingled warmth of their breaths, the growing urgency between them as they press closer and closer, as hands begin to wander, sliding up backs and into hair, breath coming faster and quicker as they harden against each other, hips moving restlessly. 

And before he can think too hard, he pushes back from En, a steadying hand on one hip, thumb rubbing over the bone that juts there. And this time, he asks, trying to summon some of his old, devilish self. Quirking an eyebrow, he holds out an arm for En. 

A deep breath, trying to summon some charm, pushing down the feelings of nervousness, self-doubt, anticipation, trying to leave all that behind him. 

“Shall we leave this tedious mess behind?”

En looks around, and slowly, the disaster begins to melt away. Gleaming countertops, a neatly frosted cake topped with fruit, not a dirty dish or flame in sight. En himself is still a mess, and so is Loki, but the kitchen is immaculate. En raises an eyebrow back at Loki. 

“No mess beyond the one in front of me — ” and a quick touch to Loki’s nose with a finger that somehow has frosting on it “But I’ll go anywhere with you, cupcake.”

And he puts his hand in Loki’s, and Loki gets half a second to think as he pulls them through a thin space in the kitchen. There are good places to teleport, thin places, where the possibilities between worlds, between time and space converge, and Loki makes it a habit to know those, to seek them out and hold them close. 

He teleports them straight on to his bed, and they tumble together in a mess of tangled limbs and a puff of flour, and it’s an immediate, delightful confusion of sloppy kisses and fumbling at clothes. 

A quick “ _Shit_ Thing, elsewhere, _please_.” as the cat-owl, rudely interrupted from a nap, propels itself off the bed with a disgruntled huff. But, Thing restrains from attacking En again, which is excellent, because Loki needs all of his attention to continue learning the taste of En’s mouth. 

Loki, though he isn’t proud of it, had thought long and hard about how this first encounter between might go. Fanciful imaginings, where they’d make love in soft golden light and exchange soft endearments. Or, overcome with passion and fucking somwhere — risky. 

Though, given En’s proclivity for orgies, and lack of embarrassment about — well, anything, Loki can imagine that the man would cheerfully fuck him at the breakfast table in front of his full court, and then casually offer him a cup of coffee to start the day. So, anything considered risky would have to be truly daring, like on a dying star about to implode, or possibly at home on Asgard in front of Loki’s entire family. 

In any case, as a young godling with shapeshifting abilities, Loki had devoted a not insignificant time to turning into just about anything imaginable (and many things that weren’t), and even more time exploring the various permutations of fucking in said forms. He can imagine the same could be said for En. _Fuck_ he should have just let them carry on in the kitchen, given himself less time to think it over. 

Now that they’re here, together, En all warm skin and hard lean lines beneath him, Loki realizes he wants this time to be a little different. To be something if not entirely unique, memorable for both of them. En has shown his hand, with his endless efforts to woo Loki, his earnest desire to _know_ Loki, and Loki wants to — show his own trust.

So, Loki does what he’s done very rarely over the course of his long lifetime, with a very few, trusted partners.

He lets his illusions fall away, revealing his Jotunn heritage.

En, for his part, takes it well enough. Loki can’t imagine it’s much of a shock for him. Indeed, rather than being shocked or surprised, En seems to be entranced, sitting up to get better leverage, to reach more of Loki.

“Oh, just _look_ at you, what was hiding underneath.”

And his touch follows his words, his fingers tracing up over Loki’s legs, his flank, tracing the raised marks, the whorls of darker blue that wrap over his hips and limbs and rise as high as his throat.

“You _beauty_.” 

En’s fingers sink into Loki’s hair, just as long but softer now, furlike. Delicate kisses, over his eyelids, brushing his long, long lashes, even longer in this shape, framing his red, red eyes. Loki keeps himself still under En’s touch, lets him keep exploring, hands eager to touch softer, subtly textured skin, feel leaner, longer muscles. 

Finally, En rubs his fingers over Loki’s horns, where they rise from his forehead, turning back on themselves. 

Among the Jotunn, they’re treated as ornamental things — polished and painted and hung with gold, with jewels. Loki’s are bare, unadorned, and he shivers, at the feeling of En touching him here, lingering over the velvet base, sliding up over the slick smoothness of the shaft. It’s incredibly arousing, and that, more than anything is what had always made the traditional adornments seem strange to Loki.

He realizes it’s very Asgardian of him, but Loki had always felt to embrace that particular tradition, he might as well paint his genitals and jewels from them in public with how erotic it feels, how _good_ it feels to have his horns touched. 

Then again, he _has_ done such things in the past, but not as a matter of course, and certainly not at state functions, as he had seen on his trips back to Jotunheim.

En notices him shiver, murmurs “Feels good, does it?”, and Loki nods silently, pushing down his introspection. He continues his efforts, stroking down firmly to the base of Loki’s horns, teasing over the tip, while Loki basks in the feeling of being adored, of being the object of utter focus. En keeps it up, eyes glinting with desire, and a hint of mischief. He keeps touching Loki, until Loki is shivering all over, body twitching, fists clenching and releasing, while his cock grows harder and harder.

That too, catches En’s attention. Loki’s cock is not that different, mostly humanoid. A bit larger at the head, narrowing to a slender shaft. And like the horns, velvety soft, giving way to smooth slickness, cool to the touch like the rest of him. En seems to like it though, and with a glance for permission, he’s got his hands on it — rubbing, stroking, observing as Loki grows harder and harder. He stops only to return to Loki’s horns, to press his mouth to Loki’s throat, and all Loki can do is wrap his arms around En’s neck, awash in sensations — the feel of En hard against him, the strain in his thighs where they stretch over En’s lap, the small, choked sounds he can’t hold back, the helpless movements of his hips. 

It’s good, _so good_ , the pleasure zinging through his horns, down his spine, through his cock. 

It keeps being good, as he grows impatient, pushing En down, and following him, crying out as their bodies slide against each other. His lips against En’s, against his throat, and further down, as he drinks down the soft noises En lets out. It gets even better, as En wraps his legs around his hips, as they sigh and move together, and soon Loki can think of nothing else but getting closer, and closer, as close as he can, nearly burning his cool skin against En’s heat, inside his laughter and his warmth, again and again. 

***

Loki wakes up first, in the morning. He wakes up, and he stares at En’s sleeping form — creased from his pillow, hair standing on end, tightly cocooned in blankets. In the end, despite being two rather inhuman beings, it had ended up being simple. Simple and _wonderful_ , and really not as complicated as Loki had thought. They’d fucked, and it’d been good, and then they’d done it again, and fallen asleep in a tangle of limbs.

Loki hopes they’ll do it again. He hopes that they’ll keep having dates, horrible ones, and good ones, and more than dates — that they’ll share quiet mornings, their dreams, their secrets, and all the soft moments in between. 

And it seems that En feels the same, because when he wakes up, he immediately reaches for Loki. Twines his fingers into Loki’s hair, wrapping a long strand of black around a forefinger. His breath is terrible, but his words are sweet. “Loki, darling, I would not ask that you pledge yourself to me, but — will you stay with me?”

Loki stretches, cat-like, arms reaching overhead. 

“I would not pledge myself.” _He would, given the time._

“But — I will stay with you. For a while.” _Maybe forever._

“For a long while?” _What is time, to beings such as them?_

Loki grins, and leans in to trace a finger up En’s neck. 

Just before their lips meet, he murmurs “Oh, long enough, my dearest En.” 

And their kiss feels like a promise for the future, like potential mixed with hope, like a sweet beginning. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I can be found on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/powercrow1), always down for questions/comments/assorted nonsense.


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